


Eight Drabbles (something like that)

by dev_chieftain



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:59:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the LJ dragon_age community, participated in some Prompt things a while back. Here's all and sundry that I wrote for it, more or less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Drabbles (something like that)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts are as follows:  
> 1 - Carver's First Girlfriend - It's Meredith  
> 2 - Mother Meets LI - It's Fenris  
> 3 - No Ordinary Love - F!Hawke/Varric  
> 4 - You are Cordially Invited to the Wedding of Aveline and Donnic - Isabela is! Really!  
> 5 - Lowtown After a Storm - Anders crushing on Merrill? What?  
> 6 - Green - Cassandra is jealous of Fenris  
> 7 - You'll never be a Dragon - :I  
> 8 - Honor - Carver and Isabela post game

**1 - Carver's First Girlfriend**

All new recruits report to the Knight-Commander, but most don't expect to make much of an impression on her. People who join the templar order are serious about their vocation but often lack self-discipline. Carver is determined to stand out from the beginning; to be better than the average man; to be a legend amongst the ranks, and not just because of the people he's related to. So in the weeks that his brother is gone beneath the surface and mother's letters flow to him constantly, terrified that he will never come back to her and worse, his brother is dead, are weeks spent gritting his teeth as he pushes himself to become the man that embodies the values of templars everywhere.

From the start, Meredith is aware of this dedication. It is obvious in the set of Carver's shoulders, the tension in his mouth. The way he meets her eyes instead of faltering nervously as so many do before him in the line of young women and men she is walking down.

"What is your name, young man?" she asks. Carver is remembering a dragon-woman who eyed his brother with the same curiosity, with golden eyes and an aura of blood around her.

"I am Carver Hawke, Knight-Commander, at your service."

Knowing who he is named for, and why, he is not surprised to see her expression harden into steel. "An interesting name." She sniffs, then seems to give him the benefit of the doubt, nodding once. "I will be interested to hear of your adventures within the ranks. Hopefully your family history hasn't tainted your understanding of our purpose."

"I assure you, it has not." Carver is thinking of his mother, sobbing, begging his brother not to bring him into the caves; of his brother, who wore a look of sudden fear as he realized perhaps for the first time exactly how dangerous the expedition he had just agreed to go on might be.

The pressure of those first weeks eases up once he receives a letter from his mother letting him know that his brother has returned safely-- a little battered, but not particularly worse for wear. And then the weeks melt into months; and the months into years.

The Knight-Commander's eyes never stray very far from him when she inspects his groups, his work, and his quarters. He reports twice as regularly as his peers and advances rapidly through the ranks.

And just before he has been three years a templar, she calls him into her quarters as the evening is beginning to darken into true night, for a report on apostate activity within the city. He stands at attention before her desk. Waiting.

"You have consistently omitted a certain detail," she begins, pacing slowly back and forth behind her desk. "From every report you give on this matter in the last few years."

"Yes," he agrees, meeting her eyes mercilessly. He is angry with his brother for making him stay, for not taking him down into the Deep Roads. But blood is thick. "I have."

She stops where she stands, not quite startled. "I'm impressed with your honesty, Ser Carver." She always calls him Ser Carver, as if by ignoring his surname she can pretend he is not related to the escaped Malcolm Hawke at all. He isn't certain how he feels about that. "I'm afraid I must have a report about your brother, however. I won't know how to proceed, otherwise."

"...Beg pardon, Knight-Commander?"

"Your mother recently petitioned for the right to reclaim her land, and your brother is becoming quite the lucrative businessman." Suddenly, the distance between them is only inches. Her eyes are implacable and her mouth is a line of strain.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could do anything at all to ease that strain. It may be uncouth to love your commander, but he could feel no other way. This woman is a woman of compassion. It is her compassion that drew him to the templars in the first place-- because he had seen her, so many times, wandering through the city, through every part of it, just as nosy and naive as his brother, in her way.

So Carver bows his head very slightly to her, and answers, "Knight-Commander, if it will help you protect this city, I'd gladly tell you anything. What do you want to know?"

"Meredith," she corrects him, gently. "Is he a threat to us? You would know better than anyone. He is not the man you are, clearly-- no mage could be. But is he a threat?"

Unfazed by her compliments-- or perhaps, suspecting them for the lies they are-- he shakes his head once. "No, Knight-Commander. He isn't a powerful enough mage to be a threat, and he is not consorting with demons. If, or perhaps when, he does, I've instructed my mother to inform me immediately so we can isolate him before he brings harm to anyone."

Surprised, Meredith nods, seeming to relax in the aftermath of a lingering fear that had been poisoning her heart. "Good."

"Is there anything else, Knight-Commander?"

"Meredith," she says again, and grabs his arm, scowling up at him for his continued refusal to use her first name. "No, nothing. You may go, Ser Carver."

He nods, bowing to her very slightly, and turning to leave.

"--Wait."

He waits.

"Carver, are there any romantic indulgences in your life?"

There have never been, and he almost tells her he has no interest in such things. Then he remembers her intense expression and the strength of her grip on his arm, and he knows that is a lie. To say as much might well be treasonous; it would certainly be enough to be booted from the ranks if he admitted it.

Flustered by his thoughts, but not the question, he answers truthfully,

"No--No, Meredith, there are not."

Does it mean anything, that she addresses him by first name and wants her to do the same? That she now goes to sit at her desk? Never has his armor felt so heavy and oppressive. The thought that he could lose everything he's worked for simply because of an unintelligently placed affection terrifies him. After he's eked out a place in his life at last, he doesn't know what he would do if he were to lose it. Doesn't _want_ to know, or find out.

Carver has received letters from his brother about the awkwardness of the young girl elf he befriended, about Aveline's comical awkwardness with her own guardsmen. He remembers trying to associate with Isabela, and while she had been wholly sexual and exuded a kind of intoxicating power, her sights had been set elsewhere, and he'd known it well.

Meredith is nothing like any of them. If anyone, she is like the dragon-woman. She has that same sense of terrifying strength, that same look of death in her eye.

"Then, as your commander and--" she smiles at him very slightly, kind and unyielding and almost playful. "As someone who has been nothing but pleased with your performance these last years, I have a proposition for you, if you are interested."

His throat is dry.

"I'll be here when you've made your decision. You're free to go, if you like."

And he does, because he needs to feel the sharp cold of the sea air on his face, to wake up from this odd dream. He needs to walk the Gallows until he is sure this is reality, and he is comfortable with it, even-- eager for it.

Then he returns to Meredith, who is calmly filling out papers and does not even look up when he enters. "Your answer?"

He closes the door. "I would like to hear your proposition, Meredith."

Candlelit, her smile is the smear of distant clouds on the sky, promising rain and new life.

"Good."

 **2 - Mother meets the Love Interest**

They kiss. And yes, it is an amazing feeling, to hold another man in his arms; Fenris shudders when he is pressed against the wall, desperate for freedom but safe, comfortable between Hawke's arms. They stumbled towards the bedchambers, which are up a flight of treacherous stairs, and they never quite break apart, even though it would be wiser.

Fenris is thinking-- he's not sure what he's thinking. He's quaking with fear and yet he would do anything to make these moments the only memories of his life. They would be good memories. He would be happy. Right now, for this one priceless moment, that is all he is: a man, who is happy.

They nearly trip at the top of the stairs. Bodahn and Sandal are out doing errands. The place has always seemed lonely when they aren't around but this time it is to their advantage.

Hawke's thoughts are wheeling around one locus of concern: _Mother is right there in her room, Mother will hear, Mother will know_. She was, earlier today, talking about finding him a wife, and he managed to smile and say nothing. She doesn't know, doesn't need to know. Carver in the Templars and himself with another man? She'll be devastated.

Fenris's back hits the bannister and Hawke towers over him, clutching him to his chest, sucking on his neck. The lyrium marks there make his tongue itch. It is too much, Fenris makes a low sound that twists Hawke's stomach.

But Mother doesn't come out of her room and they make it to his bed. He can barely remember the last time he even entertained the idea of sleeping with someone. Something about it is beyond his ability to frame in words. When they finally rest, he is sweat-drenched and still quivering with pleasure, and lays exhausted in his bed. For a few moments, it is perfect: Fenris is there beside him and all of the madness of Kirkwall is too far beyond his room to trouble him.

Then as suddenly as it began, it has fallen into the fire of doubt. Fenris panics and Hawke can't convince him to stay, though he tries. There is, in the minutes after Fenris's departure, nothing he can do but blame himself.

This is when Mother finally opens her door, as he comes back up the stairs, confused and unhappy. He has, at least, cleaned himself up, though he can't hide his embarrassment under her gaze.

She takes his hands in hers, soft and lavendar-scented. She smiles and his heart could break, to see her smile like that more often.

"You and your elf friend get along very well, don't you?"

Horrified that she must have heard everything-- even the near-argument at the end-- he fights to smile. He is too flustered to deny what she obviously already knows.

"Yes." And, seeing the kindness and the sympathy in her eyes, he holds her tight, whispering, "Thank you, Mother."

"If you dally with that guard captain to get me a few grandchildren," she teases, voice muffled against his chest, "I won't complain."

He laughs.

 **3 - No Ordinary Love**

Antivan spice makes the small room at the back of the Hanged Man seem cozy and exotic; there are long, richly dyed swaths of fabric draped over the doorway, and passing through them one can feel their soft texture brushing sensuously over the skin.

Varric Tethras lives in comfort. He settles for no less than extravagence. He values the importance of making a good impression and he works hard to be as charming, stylish, clever and indispensable as anyone could ever dream of being. He keeps his stubby fingers on the pulse of the black city, and in every pie. Hawke? Now, Hawke has enemies. It's an unfortunate consequence of being famous, rich, and heroic.

Since he is outside of the spotlight, Varric can be everybody's friend, as much as they'll let him, at any rate. Oh, sure, it's expensive being everyone's friend, and dangerous. Someday, someone will resent him for buying everyone's drinks or paying all the bribes. But that won't be for a while yet, and Varric has other concerns.

It started three hours ago:

The doors to the Hanged Man slammed open and three people carrying a fourth rushed to the back and into Varric's room. It was already past the witching hour and most of the patrons left were unconscious or too plastered to notice what came and went. Frigid winds were coming in off the sea, as it's midwinter.

Aveline, Fenris, and Isabela reached the back room carrying Hawke between them just as Varric was lighting his candles for the night and preparing to turn in.

There was blood everywhere, and Hawke's face was drawn into a horrible grimace of pain; stabbed three times, lanced through, and one of her legs was broken.

"Andraste's tits, what'd you come here for?!" he snapped, clearing the way to his bed and pointing for them to set Hawke down there. "I can't do a blasted thing for her! Damn it, where's Blondie?"

"Don't know," Aveline growled. She was applying pressure to two of the stab wounds, Isabela was coaching Fenris carefully on how to remove the spear without making the wound worse the old-fashioned way, just in case her theory about phasing wasn't going to work. Hawke's eyes were wide and it didn't seem like she saw anything: she writhed when Fenris tried to pull the javelin free of her, coughing up blood, miserable.

"Damn it!" Varric waved one of the serving girls who had come to cluster at his door in, and handed her a pouch of six sovereigns. "What in blazes happened?!"

"Ambush," Hawke croaked. She had started trembling, now that the spear wasn't skewering her. Fenris and Aveline kept her wounds pressed shut, while Isabela rifled through her pack in search of a curative potion. "Bethany-- they tried t'hurt--"

"She's fine, Hawke." Isabela leaned close, bringing the flask to Hawke's lips; when she turned away, Isabela caught her jaw and forced it down. "Drink, you idiot! It's just a damned potion!"

" _Bethany,_ " Hawke repeated, urgently struggling with them still.

"D'you see what we're up against?" From where he stood, Varric could see now the signs of the scuffle on the others; Aveline was favoring one foot, bleeding from a few places that didn't show too much with her armor. Her face was set like stone. Isabela's left arm hung useless at her side-- no wonder she was the one administering potions instead of staunching the flow of blood. Fenris seemed fine, but Varric wouldn't have put it past him to pretend health if it kept attention off of him. Closer inspection revealed an irregular pattern to the elf's breathing, and a telling dark stain near his stomach.

The serving girl he'd just paid leaned down, asking nervously, "What can I do to help, Ser Tethras?"

"Head down to lowtown and fetch the doctor, would you? Tell him it's urgent." Stroking his chin, he considered suggesting she bring a few nurses, but somehow he doubted anyone in the room would appreciate their troubles becoming more public.

"Yes, serah." She bowed quickly and turned to leave, then stopped at the doorway, glancing back with huge, worried eyes. "Anything else, serah?"

"Brandy," he agreed. "Bandages."

"I'll tell Norah, then."

How Varric could remain calm in the center of the storm that followed was a mystery to his friends. That he did was a great boon, as Hawke strained and struggled, gritting her bloodstained teeth, sweating and swearing and demanding to know if Bethany was all right. Once Anders showed up, Varric was able to pull the other three away from her one by one, forcing them to let him bandage _them_ up.

Aveline was most stubborn, unsurprisingly, and he had to see to her while she stayed at Hawke's side. When he tried to move her, she gave him a stern look with bloodshot eyes that said he would have to kill her himself. Since Varric is sort of fond of her, he decided to just hand her a shot of brandy and demanded she let him bandage her while she kept watch.

Now it's nearly sunrise, and Hawke is lightly sleeping. Anders, who put a bit more of himself than was wise into his healing, has passed out and now lies carefully cushioned on the floor. Fenris is guarding the doorway, Isabela has opted to sleep in the far corner, sitting up.

Aveline sits watchfully at Hawke's side, though she seems on the cusp of falling asleep.

"She'll be all right," he says at last, when Aveline's wavering is dizzying and he wants her to sleep for her own damn sake. "You both just need some rest." Jaw set in a stubborn scowl, it seems for a few minutes that Aveline will not back down. Then she nods, understanding, and rearranges herself to be sitting with her back braced against the wall so she can rest her eyes.

Well past dawn, Varric is wide-awake, sitting at Hawke's other side, holding her hand and watching them all carefully. No one has been sent to check up on Hawke's family, but he suspects that's how she'd prefer it.

She stirs when it begins to get noisy out in the Hanged Man again, though most of her companions are asleep. Her eyes, which were the eyes of an animal in pain, for a while, have sentience again.

Varric smiles at her, maybe a little sadly. He would rather she make efforts not to have enemies. Ah, in a perfect world. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

She grins cheekily back, bright-eyed and unfazed. Her hand squeezes his. "What...would I ever do without my...favorite dwarf?" she wheezes.

"Bleed like a stuck pig."

She laughs, but not for long-- it hurts, and the pain reminds her of more important things. "Oh, damn," she hisses, grinding her teeth against a louder invective. "You didn't send for Bethany, did you?"

"No, I figured she might be safer at Gamlen's. Can't believe I just put those words together in a sentence, but there you go."

Hawke chuckles again, a breathy, faint sound. "Truly difficult to believe, yes. Good. She'd-- she'd only worry."

He raises an eyebrow at her.

"Red Iron wanted to make me sorry I didn't kill their man for 'em," she sighs, lifting her free hand to scratch her nose and push some of her matted hair out of her face. She smells like sweat and blood, but his room is still Antivan spices and fine things, and he would never turn her away, after all. "Didn't want Bethany involved. And she can't do healing magic; she'd feel guilty."

"So you told them to bring you here?" Varric can't help being a little surprised. It still seems they'd have done better to go straight to the doctor. He has a clinic for just such an occasion, after all. "Not that I mind, but I'm a little surprised."

Her grin gets wide and toothy, and her eyes dance a little. "Oh yes, in my dying moments I called your name. They were only honoring my last request; after all, 't'is no ordinary love I feel for you, Ser Tethras."

"You're confused from all that lost blood."

"Ah, that must be it." She squeezes his hand again, and then sighs, frowning in frustration. "Getting to the loo is going to be a nightmare, isn't it?"

"I'm going to let that be Aveline's job.'

"Lucky her!"

Varric shakes his head, lets go her hand, and by the time she's managed to get Aveline awake he is safely ensconced in his own pile of cushions and silks, seemingly unaware of their exchange. Hawke prods him with her foot once, laughing at his stoic facade of slumber, but he knows better than to change his mind.

After all, he is a master of diplomatic retreat.

 **4 - You Are Cordially Invited to the Wedding of Aveline and Donnic**

Isabela was lost for words. To say the least.

"I--" she frowned, and looked down at the piece of vellum in her hand, the finely inked words, the carefully drawn symbol of Kirkwall on the back. Looked up, at Aveline, who smiled awkwardly at her and shrugged. "Are-- are you serious?"

"You don't have to come." Averting her eyes, the guardswoman seemed mildly irritated. Disappointed?

Isabela bit her lip. "Well I. I mean, I wouldn't _mind_ coming, and-- I mean, you know, it's _great_ that you and Donnic are getting together--" _for my writing career, that is_ "--I guess I'm just...surprised? That you would, um. Invite me?"

With a heavy sigh, Aveline crossed her arms over her chest. "I thought one generally invited one's friends to this sort of occasion. Do they do it differently where you come from?"

"We have a lot more sex. Everywhere. All the time."

"Ah-huh."

"No, really, it's true!"

Aveline scowled, her expression brooking no nonsense. "Are you coming or not, Isabela?"

She absolutely positively is NOT admitting that she's touched by the invitation. Directly. Out loud. "Of course I'll be there!" She grins maybe a little too widely. "Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

From the expression on her face, it seems Aveline might just regret asking.

Wait till she sees her wedding present.

 **5 - Lowtown After a Storm**

The smell is the worst part. Normally Lowtown smells vaguely like dried blood and burning bodies and steel and fire, but as the waves ebb and the storm thins and the sky changes back from uneasy yellow to the overwhelming red that drips into gold clouds and night-dark, it smells like beached fish, algae, dust.

Why he is here, and not below in his hovel in Darktown, is beyond him.

"Anders?" Merrill, who was perched like a bird on the spikes above one of the flat, sandstone walls that divide the streets, leaps down with a swirling of cloth like feathers. Her inquisitive eyes are gentle as morning. Her wild hair smells faintly of flowers. "It IS you! Did you see that storm? Did you howl up into it?" She smiles childishly. "I did."

He doesn't want to tell her that he thought about it, or even to talk to her. The blood magic she insists on pursuing reminds him like a puss-filled sore that he is no better, that he has his doubts.

Beached fish, soon to be rotting fish. But near Merrill, somehow he doesn't smell the decay as much. It seems like that shouldn't be possible.

"Are you all right Anders?" She claps her hands together, remembering a phrase someone else has taught her. Probably Varric. Varric acts like she's as innocent as a newborn kitten. "Has the cat stolen your tongue? We should look for it!"

Anders is tempted-- only tempted-- to stick out his tongue, just so she'll understand it isn't missing. Instead, he laughs; at least for now, he can still laugh.

 **6 - Green**

"Hawke was flustered, to say the least. If you think letting me kill Bartrand was difficult for him--" Varric paused, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes gray with remembered regret. "--and I can safely say, it was; well, letting Fenris kill the woman he'd been afraid of hadn't been the top of Hawke's priorities.

"But that night, there in the hall, there was a certain sense of tension as he walked through the doors. Oh, Hawke had walked in to find people waiting for him a million times; but this was Fenris, and he didn't usually pay visits.

"There were no words; Hawke swept Fenris up into his arms, intimately understanding the elf's needs and desires the way I could tell you every fine point of Bianca's trigger. They kissed, slamming into the wall and stumbled around, ripping each other's clothes off--"

"STOP!" The Seeker's voice, shrill and sharp, twinged with jealousy. Face flushed and eyes flashing with anger, she noticed Varric's smug smile and completely lost her temper. "Lying _again_ , dwarf?"

"Well," Varric sighed, shrugging; he knew he could not possibly have looked more self-satisfied if he'd tried-- largely because he had tried. "It didn't _quite_ happen like that..."

 **7 - You Will Never Be a Dragon**

You are quick-witted and fleet of foot, you are sinuous and sinister and subtle and secretive. You are successful. You own the black city just as the black city owns you, and the snow that touches Kirkwall is on your brow and the wind that blows her over is off your bow. Your course is the maze of the spirals in the sky, of worlds within worlds within worlds, forever away.

Yours are the fingers that clutch the sword, and fend off the fire with the icy tongue of magic, and plunge daggers into the backs of the wicked. You are friend to all and enemy to many. You are a giant among ants and your steps are great and terrible.

When you breathe, the world breathes; when you burn, it burns, and if you die, it dies.

You love all, as a King must love all, as the hammer loves the nail. Your heart is not the beating simple blot of flesh that chokes in the chests of those who are mortal. You are more than the sum of your parts, you are a legend.

But you are the one who ran away; you are the one who fled.

Maybe, you are a coward.

And you will never be a dragon.

 **8 - Honor**

 Carver is glad no one will see his disgrace as the heavy iron glove strikes. The follow-through snaps his head to the side, squarely into the wall to which he's been chained. He feels his knees quiver at the backlash and his fingers, his toes curl. He might throw up. He isn't sure.

All sound has been replaced with a curious ringing, and it makes his vision spotty and his nose is bleeding.

Not that he wants to die; but if he must, he'd rather die doing something useful with his life. And this is useful. Every second the templars waste extracting punishment from his flesh is a second his brother gains in distance from the Gallows courtyard, from the horrible statue that used to be Meredith, there.

They're asking more questions, making demands of him, but he can't make any of it out. When did it become night-time? He can't see anything but stars.

Someone has grabbed his shoulder and drags him up, hissing into his ear. The words are only words, and not words he can understand. He feels spit spraying more than those words, and can't even bring himself to care. His hands twitch with a memory of their purpose, thinking to wipe the moisture off of his ear, wipe the blood away from his broken nose, but they are still chained to the wall.

He never thought he'd die in a dungeon. He's sorry it couldn't have been the deep roads. Ever since that day, he's thought it would have been better: even dying down there would have been better than never seeing his brother again. But he'd hated him so much for being--

"Carver?"

He blinks several times, but the face before him still will not come into focus. Someone is shaking his shoulder, or pouring something into his mouth. Metal spiders are crawling away from the chains that bind him. He falls to his knees, then to his hands, braced there only by the grace of reflexes that still held true. His head is spinning.

Someone tries to help him up and he isn't strong enough to pull away and walk on his own. Makes the effort anyway. "Don't be an idiot," mutters whoever-it-is.

All he can think, desperately, is _please, don't be--_

But it's not his brother, when his vision finally clears and he's being half-dragged out of the Gallows and into a small boat.

"...Isa...bela?"

"Quiet, now, you're not well at all." She winks at him-- is she older? she looks older-- and starts rowing them away from the Gallows. He can see the outline of a much larger ship, sable against the black sky. Clouds are everywhere, the air is hot and close with a summer storm. Thick and wet. Hard to breathe.

He stubbornly tries to figure out why she would be here. "Isabela?" She had run away those years ago. She had been gone; even his brother had missed her. And Carver--

Well, he hadn't expected to see her again.

"Just trust me and don't try to talk, would you?" She sighs, rolling her eyes. "You ask too many questions, I'm going to start feeling awkward about my sudden honorable streak."

Rain begins to spatter them lightly, though it's warm enough to feel like blood. He can't smell anything, his nostrils are caked with dried blood and his head hurts fit to split in half. He coughs softly. "But-- why?"

She grunts, heaving as she pulls the oars through the water and sends them skimming over the oddly calm surface of the waves, like an arrow nocked at her ship. Her ship. It must be hers. She's gotten a new boat. She'd had business to take care of, he remembers. He had given up on her ever finishing it.

"Look-- I know you didn't stick your neck out for me," she laughs, almost cruelly. He wonders if she means to toss him overboard in full armor just to see him drown trying to swim back to shore. He would tell her it's a lot of wasted effort if he could. He might just suffocate on the rain if it starts to fall in earnest. "But your brother-- he fought a duel to clear out your city, and he let me keep the book-- don't think he couldn't have tracked me down. And he kept my involvement secret, when he didn't really have to."

Bracing himself for a favor rendered in his brother's name, Carver thinks (not for the first time) that he would have preferred Bethany live instead of him. It wouldn't have been so bad for her. And she never felt threatened when her brother was so--

"It pissed me off, you know?"

Noble.

"I thought about coming back, but damn it, I wasn't about to live by his good graces and pity. Not to mention all interesting pieces of ass were interested in him. Even Varric!"

Carver blinks, wishing he could better see her face from where he lies, crumpled, in the front of the boat. He does have an excellent view of her heaving bosom and bulging biceps as she rows them out with dogged determination.

"So I didn't come back," she sighs, pausing to wipe her brow and scowl up at the sky. Lightning flashes off of the gold stud in her lower lip. It makes her seem to have fangs, somehow. "Not for him, anyhow. But nuts to you, Carver; I missed having you on. So I come back, thinking I'd pay you a visit, and what do I find but chaos!"

"Mm," he agrees. Chaos certainly describes it.

"I don't know what happened to Hawke and those blighted idiots still following him, but they made no secret of you. Did you know they were going to have you executed?" He hadn't, but she doesn't wait for him to answer. "Executed! For someone else's imaginary crimes! I've had the knife to my neck too recently not to do something. And-- don't take this the wrong way, of course-- I always sort of liked you."

He doubts that.

"Well, I liked teasing you."

Not that, so much.

"In any case-- I figure neither of us will owe him anything if we can handle ourselves without his charity. And I could use another shiphand with sense. And-- well, you can tell me no later if you don't want to. But for now let's just get you aboard, all right? Storm's about to break and I want out of here before morning."

He owes her his life, so he nods as the clouds break open. They awkwardly clamber aboard her ship in the downpour, and escape to the open sea.

Carver doesn't once look back at Kirkwall. He is tired of living in the past.


End file.
